Category Archives: writing

Ouch.

Pain is dark.

It’s quiet and lonely and heavy and it throbs.  It sure can take your breath away. It’s a hard thing to explain to somebody even when they are desperately trying to understand how much it hurts. There is not a lot of sound here.  I can hear the ceiling fan and a random giggle from downstairs that feels good and also a little sad. Even now, I am lying on my side and I’m staring at a picture of my kids, trying to cope with every joint in my body hurting.  I want to scream the F bomb.

Here is my view:

There are some interesting things in this picture..Thor’s unmade side of the bed, Cracker’s lost boot: the reason she had a 34 minute before-school tantrum on Friday morning…Whoop, dere it is!  Found it, you little brat. (That’s OK, mommy loves you.)

I know you want to know about the camera. (Insert 70’s porn music here). TOO BAD!!! No kinky shenanigans.  Just my pals trying to bring music to ME while in confinement…we made a little music video. If you have an extra 14 minutes and 36 seconds just lying around, check it out.  It’s a sweet examination into the compassionate world of friends who will do anything to make you feel better.  But wear your low expectations hat because I was trying to sing sick in bed with a vacuum attached to my belly.  Vacuum belly!!! It’s mission? To suck out Ghostbusters slime grossness out of my wound.   That Vac was a constant companion….I called it “my little friend.” But you have to say it out loud with the Tony Montana Scarface accent. You try it.  Say it:”my little friend.”  Say it again.  “My little friend.” So fun, huh?  That vac went everywhere with me.  It was like carrying around the grossest purse in the world.  But I couldn’t go anywhere for long because of it.  I could only run around in social circles and with gangs that had a lot of outlets handy…here’s the video!

The Sick Sessions with Gritman&Moran
But seriously.  Go back to the above photo and look at that picture of my kids, taken on our favorite beach in Naples.  Omg.  It’s precious to me and I’ll never forget that moment. That picture in itself is an anti-inflammatory for the soul; it’s OxyContin for my heart; it’s a Kleenex, stopping the trail of my tears. I have been staring at it in pain for a over a month. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten….a beautiful soul had it blown up for me.  Thank you, my sweet, red-headed friend. 

At this point, I am not really feeling any pain from the surgery. My wound is kind of closing up and I am just weak from being laid up so long. I was able to scrounge my way through a couple of gigs and run a few errands but now I’m back in bed jail. And it’s not even really from the earlier craziness.  It’s due to a medical condition I have had for about 6 years.  Most of the time you would never even know I have it.  It’s called Rheumatoid Disease aka Rheumatoid Arthritis aka RA aka Evil Bitch From Hell. They changed the name from RA to add the word “disease” because it’s a nightmare of an auto-immune disorder. And frankly, the RA powers that be were probably sick of people not understanding it.  Like every time they mentioned that they had rheumatoid arthritis to the person talking to them, the other person would inevitably start complaining about how their knuckles hurt when it rains. Not the same thing. Weather has nothing to do with this.  Here is what it is, deftly illustrated by a select chosen lot of drunk people dancing:

Immune system broken….like going all crazy on itself…like THIS…but instead of flouncy dancing at your joints, it’s punching them…like THIS. Humira, a miracle drug that I shoot in my thigh every week, calms my immune system down so it’s like THIS. You get the idea. Dance like no one’s watching.  (But we are.). (And we’re laughing.)

Th whole mess happened because sometimes when I’m on the drug, my immune system can’t fight anything. So if I get, let’s say a random chest cold or a stupid little bug bite, unlike most people, my body can’t fight it. It’s one of the more rare side effects of the drug, like I think it’s written near the bottom of side effects on the warning label, listed under “spontaneous eyeball bleeding.” It rarely happens, but this is how lucky I am! Weeeeee!!!

The hospital stories are coming next. But I’m grossed out.  I am a person who does not handle anything yucky well at all.  For instance, If you are walking with me on the street and you lean over and you spit, I will throw up.  When I clean a toilet, I do it while I am dry-heaving.  If you have an eye-related incident, you’re going to have to go to somebody else with it. And when my kids spurted any blood throughout their childhoods, I have been known to completely run the other way. There is also a very large unrelated issue with clowns.  So you can imagine how traumatizing it was for me to be in the hospital with a gaping, staph-infected hole in my stomach.  I was never able to even look at it.  But everyone else in the free world sure did!  And I was really good at reading everyone’s face when they were looking at it so I could tell how bad it really was.  I’m nothing if not painfully observant. My husband Thor tried to take pictures of it and I groggily threatened divorce.  A very good friend came to visit me and I was happy to see him until he (1) tried to plan with another visiting friend on how they could get their hands on my morphine and (2)tried to take a picture of my wound and start a public fan Facebook page. I know. Funny but awful.  

So I think tomorrow I will start writing about all those gross things but I just can’t bear to do it today. 

And here we are. I’m banned from Humira for another month and everything hurts. EV-ER-EE-THING. I’m sorry, but I’m whiny.  I have a whole in my stomach the size of the Grand Canyon, medical professionals keep sticking their fingers in it, my family has been through hell, my dream job fired me, I have missed countless gigs so I’m broke as hell and I have sunk so low trying to entertain myself, that I am currently binge-watching The Nanny. Do NOT tell anyone that.

But this is not how I’m going to play this. A pity party is not how I’m going to choose to handle this.  It’s beneath me.  It’s going to go down exactly like this:

I have a great bed. Cable has not been shut off yet. Look at my kids, please. They’re adorbs. My husband Alpha, the best man in the world, would definitely be Knighted by the Queen if we lived in Great Britain. My parents are incredible; all of them. I have this ridiculously fantastic nurse who came to my house and she healed me inside and out and she was so nice, she didn’t even try to tie wood chunks on my ankles and break them so I couldn’t run away. (Great movie) Voice text on my iPad is the BOMB. I have so many incredible friends who are so loving and giving, I could spaz out with love for them. And I get to sing, sing, sing with my homies and I get to sing, sing, sing for people that I love. I have a house, I drive the Blueberry and I live in the best town in the land.  Soon my gaping wound will be gone, “my little friend” The Vac will be returned, cleaned, sanitized and sent off to suck Ghostbusters slime out of some other poor bastard. I will be back on Humira and no one will know that I even have this stupid disease. I will get a new job, have a kick ass summer on Bangs Lake and watch a buttload of Alpha playing lacrosse.  And most importantly, I will always have the memories of the time when I desperately needed a village and the village came running. 

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It Takes An Open Wound…

…to get a girl back to blog land.

I have recently been through a life-threatening medical trauma.  But we will get to that in my next installation because I am a big fan of suspense. At my lowest moment, when I didn’t think I could take any more insanity, I stared up at the hospital ceiling and thought, “Jesus.  I need to blog this shit.”

Conveniently enough, that day my family visited me and brought me a bag of get-well goodies.  My favorite things were the roll of Rolos and an adult coloring book.  It sounds kind of pornographic, but it’s not.  It’s not pages filled with nasty bits, if thats what you had in mind.  Yucky on you.  They are filled with grown up and pretty and hard-to-stay-in-the-lines pictures.  I’ve seen these coloring books on The Facebook but I didn’t fully understand the hype.  Omg.  Best invention ever.  So calming…so calming…so calming…

The Wound Journal.


It might have been the continuous IV Morphine and Norco cocktail, but I decided that I needed to color the shit out of this thing and use it as a diary to write the greatest non-fictional novel ever known to man, entitled “The Wound Chronicles”.
Then I realized that it was just too soon. Way too soon to laugh about any of it.  I kept on trying to start talking about it, but much like me not being able to actually LOOK at the wound, I still couldn’t even really tell anybody much about it.  Until yesterday, when I went on an adventure to visit my infectious disease doctor – yes, I have one of those.  Don’t be jelly. 

As I was sitting in the waiting room and I was trying not to touch ANYTHING (seriously, I think I left my arms above the armrests for a full 47 minutes.)  I was side-staring at people, germ profiling them and worrying about how they were going to spread their tse-tse flu or Zika virus tainted cells into my healing wound.  I was being a germist form of a rascist and I was very ashamed.  And then I was worried that they might be grossed out by me, so I started to have a full-blown panic attack.  I began quiet Lamaze breathing.  That made me look weirder.  I totally started upper lip face-sweating.  WHY WAS THE COMPLIMENTARY TV OFF?  This was a torture chamber.  They had to know that an episode of “House Hunter: International” would have calmed all of us freaks down.   I was a shell of a woman.  They finally called my name and I hobbled faster than a turtle to get away from everyone. I am quite sure they were equally glad to get rid of the sweaty, strange woman puffing her breath and leering at all of them with her arms up in the air.

The nurse made me lie down and she removed my dressing.  She didn’t even put anything over it. Exposed naked wound in room 4!  She left me and the gaping hole and all of the whole mess just out there, exposed for the world to see and ripe for a brand new strain of MRSA.  I had to wait way too long for the doctor in that vulnerable state.  As every minute passed, I realized that now my wound was on display to the open air and to the WHOLE PLANET and anyone even walking by the window. I was distraught that I left my phone in my purse so I couldn’t be distracted from the crazed images of invisible flying death germs stealthily dive-bombing directly into my healing cavity.  At this point, I was absolutely sure that I was going to get the conga flu in the hole or rickets or polio and I really, really hoped that it wasn’t going to turn black.  I started to hum the theme to the movie “Tootsie” for absolutely no other reason than that I was coming completely unhinged.

There it was.  That was the Oprah “aha” moment.  It was while I humming “somethings telling me it might be you” that I laughed very loudly at myself and my mental instability and I realized…yep.  It’s time.  It’s time to share the epic story of the wound.

For now, I have to wrap this up because I’m so tired.  I still get weak.  Doing nothing throws me into nappy time.  It’s so totally stupid.  Typing this has put me into a near coma and I’m already practically lying down.  But I look forward to going back to my notes and sharing some crazy wound crap with anyone who came stomach it enough to read it.  My goal is to post one a day but I have no follow-through.  See you tomorrow?  Or in 2019.  My last post on here was from 2012.  I wish me the best of luck. 

I have misplaced my ability to read…

…it must be around somewhere….I used to be able to read all the time…let’s see….let me get my glasses…oops, don’t know where they are either…probably on my head….nope…darn it all to heck…that’s really a shame because I FINALLY got a copy of the middlemarch book , but upon opening it, I realize it’s typeset is sized for readers the size of…

THUMBELINA

The cover is super pretty, ya’ll….looky….

I finally grabbed a spot on the couch…it was really quiet a beautiful breeze blowing in..kid were upstairs and I had about 20 minutes to spare before getting ready for a fun Friday night out…and I stared at the cover for about 5 minutes.  I kind of got lost in it, really.   I ceremoniously adjusted my head on the couch pillow and started to read the first page.

Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.”   Kick-ass first line.  This is going to be good.

Then a wet naked Barbie flew over me on the couch.  Oral bomb noises quickly followed,  and ended with a biff-to-the-forehead noise and an “OUCH-UH!!!”  (That’s a new thing that the girls are doing…adding “uh” to the ends of words.  That’s DUMB-UH, WHAT-UH,  COME ON-UH.   WTF is that?  Look, there is even a FB page for it HERE)

 Then Bambi yelled at Cracker for whipping it at her and they had an apology fight.  “You apologize, no YOU apologize.” Someone please fucking apologize because I have read the first line 5 times.  Then the phone rang.  Then I really tried hard to concentrate and while I was reading the first paragraph, I tried really, super hard to concentrate but then I thought about if I have time to take a shower before we go over to a friends and did Cracker leave her Sonic shake in the car because I will forget about it for a couple of days until it smells and OW!!! I  suddenly got one of those shooting boob pains, what the hell IS that when that happens cause I don’t die from it when it happens but it’s in my boob and I think I need to Google that…READ READ READ, concentrate….I came across words like “frippery” and I really wish I could be reading this on my Kindle so I could hit the word and the definition pops up.  I suddenly realized I am going to need a pocket dictionary.  Hey, look.  I am no chump.  I am no idiot.  I was an English Lit. minor in one of my many colleges I attended.  I done read good.   But it’s been awhile and I have spent the last 12 years reading Highlights Magazines, Mattel Toy Assembly instructions and “Everybody Poops”.  (Great read BTW, highly recommend.)

I got down to about a third of the page and I started to schvitz a little bit.  I flipped back to the end of the book .  746 pages.  That’s a lot less than Volly, my reading project partner.  That’s maybe because my font size is -1pt.  

“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…”  What is that smell?  What IS that?  Is that a rotten orange?  Shit, I forgot to drop off dress at the dry cleaner and I can do it tomorrow….no I can’t do it tomorrow, what is tomorrow, what do I have tomorrow, OMG why can’t I remember what tomorrow i-FOOTBALL scrimmage, right, then drive Papa and Nana to airport and

Shit…ok….“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…The Brooke connections, although not slightl-“

I was staring at the words.  I was starting at each individual word, trying to process it.  It actually made me feel like I was going a little bit insane.    I heard a fly and thought of the bad meal we had a a local place this weekend because we ate outside and there were flies everyone and I thought about how they poop on everything and how everyone always freaks out and really, how bad could fly poop be, I mean it’s so small that it’s almost as small as the font size in my book.

Then I really start to ride the procrastination train and I start reading the quotes on the back.  Who does that but people who are procrastinating?  Or bored people pooping on the potty?  Then I read the biggest quote on the back.  I quite literally made me jump up, shove a Bath and Body Works 20% coupon in the book as a marker and run into the office to quit reading forever.

“One of the few English books for grown-ups.”  – Virginia Wolff

I am too busy to read now.  I have to go get that shake out of the car, find the source of the kitchen smell and starting drinking heavily.  Then, when I stumble wasted into bed later tonight and read the first page of my book 12 times, I will at least have a very good excuse.

(I have NEVER even blogged the word “poop” before and I think I used it today about 10 times.  See what a bad influence reading can be to a person?)

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Feck.

FeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeck

I love the word, fuck. Love it. But since it’s St’ Patty’s time, I like to say FECK. Feck Feck feck.

I am going to write a book.

I have decided this. My life is and always was, excessively goofy. It is pretty much a daily occurrence for something ridiculous to happen to me. And I think I owe it to my children to write this shit down. I am working on the outline now and I have already run unto a problem. I am getting to the high school years and now I don’t know what to do. I need to make a call here because there is some FECKED up shit and do they really have to know everything about their mother? I mean, I don’t know half of what my parents did and frankly, I. Don’t. Wanna.

Do they need to know about how I lost my maidenhood or how I scaled my wall drunk at their grandfather’s 40th birthday party? Do they want to read about how I chugged a bottle of Jack Daniels and peed on Sean Gorley’s living room carpet, only to wake up in his soccer uniform (shin guards included)? Must they hear about me trying to make out with a hot BBQ and do they really need to know about my crazy Boulder band daze?

I think not. So I will have to be really selective. But that crazy stuff. That’s the shit that I want to remember, too. It’s good for me. It puts hair on the chest. Reminds me that my kids are never going to be allowed to leave the fecking house. If I had my druthers, they would all be put in a convent until college. But then they might come out weird.

And so what do I call this blockbuster? Oprah’s next book club selection and the reason for my future Pulitzer?

Mama was a Slut but now she makes a mean PB and J? Mommy is bad with money and let me tell you why? How to fuck up a perfectly privileged childhood and education by Mommy? Hmm…Not so much.

I think I will focus on the fun stuff and remember that my children, even if full grown will be reading this and while I want to give them a true account of the many faces and places of Mommy, I want them to respect me. And so I guess I have to respect myself and leave out the scary crap. Maybe I should do and unabridged adult version. Entitled Mom does Porn.

Oh, this will be fun. One more thing for me to fit in my already insanely busy day.

Feck.

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